The longest night
by solveariddle
Summary: Emily promised Hotch to confide in him whenever she is having a bad day. She just didn't expect it to be so hard.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story is a sequel to my story _The darkest hour_, but you don't need to read that story first to understand what happens here. This is my version of Emily's bad day (7x12, Unknown Subject) and how Hotch helps her to get through it. Her one sentence _I'm having a bad day_ at the end of the episode wasn't nearly enough to handle the subject appropriately (at least if you ask me, and perhaps you share my opinion).

Spoilers for 7x01, 7x12 and the Foyet/Doyle story arcs in seasons five and six. Will be a TWOSHOT. This chapter is about Emily and her inner fight. I wanted to show that it takes a lot to break her and make her admit that she is having a bad day. So, just in case you miss him – don't worry, Hotch will be in the next chapter.

No classical H/P romance but since this is about their strong emotional bond, shippers and non-shippers will be able to interpret what happens as preferred.

I hope the story will be as emotional for you to read as it was for me to write. Reviews are VERY appreciated. I am still licking my wounds after the finale and need some encouragement.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Criminal Minds and the dialogue I quote from 7x12 (Unknown Subject) belong to CBS.

* * *

Wherever you're standing, I'll be by your side

Through the good, through the bad, I'll never be hard to find

_Emeli Sande_

* * *

There is a screaming wind outside accompanied by heavy rain and a thunderstorm. It is late, past midnight, and the BAU team is stuck in a hotel in the middle of nowhere after their latest case. It wasn't under consideration to fly back home because of the bad weather.

Her hotel room is clean and tidy. Nonetheless, she would prefer not having to kneel in front of the toilet in this strange place. It is the third time in a row that she has to throw up even though there is nothing left in her stomach. By this time, bile is burning in her throat.

It's not the food; she hasn't upset her stomach. The other team members met by early evening to have dinner together and make the best of the situation. She skipped the meal, though, just as she already had skipped lunch. And she isn't pregnant either, almost has to laugh cynically when this bitter thought crosses her mind fleetingly. At this time of her life, a pregnancy would be a biological impossibility. There is no significant other. No, the explanation for her sickness is as simple as devastating – the events of the day made her feel nauseated.

When the queasiness eventually gets better, she stands up slowly and flushes the toilet. The lack of food and the nausea have taken their toll. She is feeling weak and wobbly on her legs. The mirror in the bathroom confronts her with the reflection of a torn, pale woman, and her dark hair and eyes make her even look paler. Not the strong, confident woman SSA Emily Prentiss usually is.

She brushes her teeth while trying to avoid looking at her reflection. This will go away. It always does. Even the longest night ends sometime. She will feel better soon. Save that she knows deep inside that today was not like any other day, and this is why tonight is not like any other night – as bad as her nights already are at times. If she's honest with herself, she knows that this night will be worse, that what she is feeling won't go away. For now, though, she prefers to pretend that it will.

Emily paces through her room, well aware that sleep is not an option. She is craving to go for a jog as an outlet for the negative energy that is trapped inside her body. Due to the weather, this is impossible though. Watching TV would just make her more agitated, and it is not their usual sort of hotel that comes with a mini-bar. Hence, getting drunk also is no option since she doesn't plan to go to the hotel bar. Meeting one of her colleagues, or even worse a stranger she has to talk to, is out of the question. She would have to explain, and she doesn't want to.

Therefore, she checks her bag for the clothes she will wear the next day in a futile effort to distract herself. When she rifles through her bag, her fingers feel the black booklet Hotch gave her. She remembers their discussion on the plane. Hotch confronted her with the lies she had told her therapist about the (non-existent) contact with her mother and her (alleged) lover. Most of all, though, he made her promise that she will come to him whenever she is having a bad day.

On top of this, he gave her the booklet a couple of days later. _It was my only outlet after Foyet_, he told her. _Maybe it helps you not to make the same mistakes._ A diary. When she touched the rough surface, she knew without a doubt that he had just handed over secrets to her that he hadn't shared with anybody as yet, not even with David Rossi, one of his closest friends. On the very same evening, she started reading and didn't stop until she finished reading at sunrise. It was heartbreaking. His exact, small handwriting filled page for page. It wasn't a diary in the classical sense but documented Hotch's gruesome journey from the moment Foyet had stabbed him until the moment he had come to terms with the murder of his ex-wife and the fact that he had killed Foyet.

Emily always has the booklet with her. It is her lifeline in sleepless nights – no matter whether she is at home or in an anonymous hotel as she is now.

She turned off the lights except for the one on the nightstand. When she sits down on the bed, she feels the relief in her shaky legs. For a few minutes, she just holds the booklet in her hands, holds it almost reverently, before she opens it. Dates from approximately two years ago are followed by Hotch's neat handwriting. However, as a precaution, there is no clue as to who wrote it or who is involved. No names, no nothing. Just raw, barely suppressed emotion seeping through the lines. Emily doesn't read, doesn't have to, by now she could quote blindly from it. Reading and re-reading it, she had to stop several times to compose herself, didn't want her falling tears to smear the words. She still can't believe that Hotch gave it to her, that he didn't hesitate to bare his soul to her. Their new-found closeness after their talk on the plane is as welcome and comforting as unfamiliar.

Normally, she can handle the loneliness, has gotten used to it. Except for some brief relationships, she has always lived alone. Tonight, though, after what happened today, the loneliness is a burden that weighs too heavy on her shoulders to carry it on her own. Reading Hotch's lines, or just touching the rough surface of the booklet, doesn't calm her down as usual. Emily is tired and exhausted. Yet, her inner turmoil doesn't subside. On the contrary, she feels her heartbeat speed up.

When she closes her eyes in another attempt to calm down, she thinks herself back unintentionally into the interrogation room where she questioned a woman who tried to kill her assailant. Emily prevented the killing by deliberately misinforming her when they arrived at the crime scene. She told her that the man wasn't her offender. A lie.

_Why didn't you let me pull the trigger? _

Emily hears the woman's voice loud and clear in her mind. It is so real as if she is back in the interrogation room. In a way, the woman is right. What good did it do that she prevented the killing? The woman will have to testify against her offender in court, will have to relive the crime over and over. The offender lives, and the victim has to live with it.

_He will never see the light of day. Ever. _

It was her justification for the lie she had told, and Emily believed it when she said the words emphatically. Believed it until the woman asked the next question.

_Can you guarantee that?_

No, she can't guarantee it. As much as she wants to, she can't. With a good lawyer, anything is possible. There is also the no less frightening alternative of an escape from prison. Doyle escaped to hunt her up. No one is safe. She of all people knows this. That's why her answer was rather evasive.

_I know it's hard._

Thinking about it causes nausea again. Pretending doesn't work anymore. She tried to pretend when she interrogated the woman. Tried not to let the whole situation get to her, tried to keep up her shield. It was not the first difficult case after she had come back. She could do this. Nothing, though, had prepared her for what happened next, for the next words the woman said to her.

_No, you don't. You have no idea what it's like when the monster from your nightmares comes back for you._

It was textbook psychology. The woman hadn't known what words to choose to break her. Yet, she had chosen the right ones instinctively. Emily starts to shiver. She almost can't hold on to the booklet she is still clutching tightly while reliving the situation. In that moment in the afternoon, she felt her shield deteriorate. Her skin started to prickle; her body told her to run. Yet, she couldn't. This was an interrogation. This was her job. She had to stay. It was too late anyway. The woman realized that Emily had told her the truth, that she really knows how hard it is.

_Wait... Something happened to you. What did you do to him? Did you arrest him like a good FBI agent? Or did you kill him?_

One victim recognizing the other. It was like a cruel time machine. One moment Emily was in the interrogation room; the next moment she was in the basement, screaming her mind to the heavens when Ian Doyle branded her with his trademark – a four-leaved clover. Then she was at the airport, Declan in her arms, Ian on the ground in front of her, bleeding, dying.

_I didn't pull the trigger._

There were so many things Emily could have said, but in the end it all comes down to this. She didn't pull the trigger even if she wanted it so badly. Ian Doyle is dead, but it wasn't her who killed him. To this day, she doesn't know whether she should feel thankful for it or enraged that she didn't get the chance to take revenge.

_Still, your monster is dead. I have to live with mine. _

The conclusive words of the woman linger in Emily's memory. Technically, it is correct. Nevertheless, the truth is that even if her monster is dead, Ian Doyle will haunt her for the rest of her life.

A branch scratches against her window. Emily flinches and hates herself for being tied up in knots. Even after all these months. Even when she knows he is dead. The booklet slips from her hands, and she jumps up; her body is abuzz with rage and energy. Combined with her physical weakness, it is a dangerous mixture. She feels dizzy and has to steady herself on the nightstand.

The screaming wind has calmed down outside, and in the silence of the night, there is only one sound left – a heartbreaking whimper that escapes her throat. There is no use to deny it any longer. She is having a bad day.

* * *

**To be continued**

**So, what do you think?**

**Could these have been Emily's thoughts during the interrogation?**

**Let me know and leave a review, please. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This chapter continues right where the last one ended. Emily eventually goes to tell Hotch about her bad day, and in my version of the events, this exchange doesn't end after one sentence (as it happened on the show). I also wanted to point out the parallels between Foyet and Doyle and how Emily and Hotch suffer in the same way. A chance that was wasted on the show. This had so much potential. Oh well...

Those of you who have already seen the finale will for sure detect one special sentence that I put in another context here. Another wasted chance. They should have dealt with it all much earlier on and off camera. Again – oh well...

Spoilers for 7x01, 7x12 and the Foyet/Doyle story arcs in seasons five and six.

Thank you SO MUCH for the reviews and the alerts. Of course, also for this chapter, reviews are VERY appreciated. ;) So, here it is.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Don't sue.

* * *

The hotel is quiet, the constant drumming of the rain onto the roof the only sound, as Emily approaches the room of her unit chief. She knocks softly on his door, prepared to go back to her room in spite of her inner uproar. She knows he has sleep disturbances, too. Should this be one of the rare nights he is sound asleep, she doesn't want to be the one who wakes him up – bad day or not.

It only takes a brief moment, though, and he opens the door. Hotch doesn't flinch from the sight of her, disheveled and agitated, in front of his door in the middle of the night. Most likely he braced himself for the bad news a knock on the door late at night usually implies. From his perspective, her visit probably isn't the worst he imagined.

"Prentiss," his voice doesn't give anything away. Just a regular visit from a colleague. Aside from the fact that it's late at night and that her condition is anything but normal. Only the concern in his eyes lets on that he is well aware something is wrong.

"I thought maybe you want this back."

She holds out his booklet to him. When she left her hotel room, she grabbed the booklet in passing. She has come here to tell him about her bad day. She doesn't need a flimsy excuse. Nonetheless, Emily isn't the type to blurt something out, and the booklet gives her the opportunity to stall for time. Emily didn't expect her inner uproar to be so visible though. Her hands are shaking badly. Of course, Hotch notices it. Wordlessly, he takes the book and grabs her arm with his other hand, pulling her gently inside. Then he guides her toward the only chair in the room.

"Do sit down," he says quietly in a tone of voice that usually is reserved for negotiations with unsubs or other dangerous creatures. Granted, in those situations his voice lacks the concern it reveals now. Howsoever, Emily wants to tell him to stop talking to her as if she was a loose cannon. Save that she can't do anything right now except letting herself drop onto the said chair.

Her wobbly legs are relieved to get some rest, and her limbs feel numb. Even so, the anxious energy that is trapped inside her body causes her to jump up shortly afterwards. She paces through the room while Hotch is watching her carefully. He has never seen her like this before. Like a caged animal ready to attack. Then again, she never knocked on his door in the middle of the night before.

"Sorry, I can't," Emily's voice shows first signs of breathlessness. _Can't what? Sit down? Keep an even keel? Tell him about her bad day? _This is ridiculous. She is aware that she is going to hyperventilate soon if she isn't able to calm down.

The humming energy within doesn't listen to her inner voice though. Moreover, it wants out. Here and now. She runs her fingers through her hair to stop them from shivering, to do anything, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps, and Emily notices from the corner of her eye that Hotch approaches her slowly. She ends up in an awkward position, bent forward, arms twined around her body tightly. Still, nothing helps. Her heartbeat keeps speeding up, and there isn't enough air in her lungs anymore to breathe. All of a sudden, the floor comes much too close, much too fast, and Emily only realizes she almost fainted when she feels Hotch's arms around her. He caught her and broke her fall.

"Can't breathe," is all she manages to get out. As if he hadn't already recognized that.

His hands clasp her waist, and her face is in his shirt that provides her with a pleasant, comforting scent. Something she registers in spite of the odd circumstances when he half guides, half carries her to the bed (she thinks she feels one of his hands grab her legs at some point, lifting her up, but she isn't sure as blurry as everything is).

The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room that allows them to sit together. As soon as he is certain that Emily is seated safely, Hotch sits down next to her, turns to face her and takes both of her hands in his.

"Look at me," he says, and his voice is steady, not at all as chaotic as this whole situation. And she wants to, really, but she is dizzy and has trouble focusing anything. "Emily, look at me," one of his hands reaches out and raises her chin, holds it gently until she manages to calm down enough to focus and look at him.

"Just breathe," he then tells her and emphasizes his own breathing, "Breathe in, breathe out." Emily doesn't realize that she does anything besides shaking uncontrollably. Obviously, she does, though, because the dizziness gradually vanishes, and she feels her heartbeat slow down as well. "That's good." She sees his lips move, hears his voice. Nevertheless, she doesn't dare to lose their eye contact. It defies every logical explanation. Somehow, though, it helps her to breathe.

On any other day, Emily would make fun of him and herself. Breathing together. How pathetic. Right now, she is nothing but grateful for his help. After several more minutes, she has calmed down completely. Emily takes a deep breath and smiles uneasily.

"Wow, that was a first," she says with a snort to break the tension, pulling her hands out of his grip although his touch felt very nice, "Sorry, this never happened to me before. And thank you for... helping me." Her glance jumps around unsteadily, and Hotch is aware that she is so uncomfortable that she acts on pure instinct, wants to get out and away from him as quickly as possible. Save that he won't let her.

Emily stands up and walks over to the door, eager to flee the situation. The fact that she came here to tell him about her bad day forgotten given what just happened.

"Really, Hotch, thank you," she tries to cover up her hasty departure, "but I think I should go and catch up on some sleep." As if either of them could sleep now.

Hotch doesn't answer, and she briefly wonders why, wonders what is going on. When she reaches out to open the door and finds it locked, she knows.

"You locked the door?" Emily turns around and looks at him frowning.

It is a hotel room door with a panic lock, and she could open it easily. The fact, though, that he locked the door behind her, anticipated this to happen, catches her enough off-guard to question what she is doing. She looks at the locked door, then back at him, and realizes that she failed. She came here to keep her promise, to tell him about her bad day, and she didn't do it, was about to run away. One more time.

Emily leans her back against the door and closes her eyes to gather herself. When she opens her eyes again, Hotch hasn't moved. He is sitting patiently on the bed, watching her, giving her the time she needs to compose herself. She becomes aware only now that he is dressed to go to bed – in sweatpants, a shirt and barefoot. Of course. This is his hotel room, and it's late at night. She is the one in street clothes. Yet, Hotch managed to remedy the situation. Barefoot or not. It is an awkward situation, but they lead awkward lives, deal with situations other people can't even imagine.

"I'm sorry," she admits eventually, "I came here because I had a bad day. To keep my promise and tell you about it. I didn't expect myself to freak out."

"You didn't freak out. You had a panic attack," Hotch states and watches her flinch in response to his remark. "To be honest," he continues, "I expected this to happen." Once he read the protocol of the interrogation, he didn't need to see the recordings of the camera that was installed in the room as well. It took no profiler to put two and two together and realize that this case had hit too close to home for her to ignore it, that today most likely was a _bad day _for her.

Emily raises an eyebrow. This is news to her. He anticipated even more than she suspected. This is the reason why he wasn't surprised to see her when she knocked on his door. Apparently, he knows her better than she knows herself. Until she started vomiting, she didn't expect this case to be the one that... _Would break her? Would push her over the edge?_

"So, you expected me? Yet, you changed into...," she gestures toward his casual appearance. He may have profiled her right, but she's a profiler, too. This is Hotch. If he expected her, he wouldn't have changed his clothes. Well, most likely that is. With their new-found closeness, who knows.

"Sometime after midnight, I thought that I was mistaken, that you wouldn't come anymore," he concedes. Hotch stopped waiting for her and decided to go to sleep. Then she knocked.

Emily considers what he just told her, lets the words sink in. There is only one conclusion, "You thought that I broke my promise? That I wouldn't come to tell you despite having a bad day?" It hurts to ask him, but she has to.

"No," he responds instantly, "I was sure that you would tell me. If not today, then tomorrow or the next time. I respect that this is something you can only do when and how you decide to do it. And you still have a chance to tell me if you want to. You didn't leave. You're still here."

There is a lump in her throat. After the mess that defined her life in the past, it is unfamiliar that someone cares about her and trusts her unconditionally. She swallows and breaks the eye contact. Her legs feel wobbly again, and Emily slides down until she sits on the floor, her back against the door. It is not the most comfortable position, but it is appropriate that she is sitting on the floor. After all, she is at ground level emotionally. She closes her eyes and puffs. Why does this have to be so hard?

"Why is this so hard?" she eventually voices her thoughts.

Hotch doesn't say anything in response, sensing that why she originally came over starts now. Yes, it's hard. He of all people knows this. But there is only so much he can do. She has to take the first step. And she does.

"I'm having a bad day," she whispers, "And I am not able to deal with it alone."

Her confession hangs in the air heavily. Emily doesn't dare to look at him. It is a balancing act. On one hand, she wants Hotch to see the strong and self-confident agent in her he can rely on when they are in the field. On the other hand, her promise to tell him about her bad day requires that she allows him to see her flaws. It is ironic how much strength it takes to show weakness.

"I know it's hard," Hotch's soft voice breaks the silence, "That's why I made you promise to come to me, to talk to me. You shouldn't have to do this on your own."

"You did it on your own," Emily retorts, and even from the distance, she sees his eyes darken. The booklet. Foyet. His monster. She read it all. He never asked for help.

"I wasn't strong enough to show someone else my weakness," he reflects her earlier thoughts, "but you are strong enough."

She shakes her head in disbelief, "No, I'm not. I'm just keeping a promise. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't made me promise it."

Hotch studies her thoughtfully. "What was the worst?" he asks after a longer pause. "Don't think about it," he adds when he notices how she starts to recapitulate the events of the day, weighs and ignores, tries to pick something, "Tell me the first thing that comes to your mind."

"That she recognized me as a victim," the words are out of Emily's mouth before she can stop them. Saying them aloud is accompanied by a fresh wave of anger. She fought so hard not to be a victim – literally and figuratively. Yet, this role always seems to catch up with her – no matter what she does.

Hotch isn't surprised. He knows her. The fact that a stranger recognized her fate, detected the invisible sign, affected her deeply. He waits for her to say something else, but she doesn't.

"You _are_ a victim," he then says – on one hand because it is true and on the other hand to get a reaction from her. And he is getting one.

Her head jolts up, her eyes flash. "Don't say that," she hisses, "Not you." Emily is on her feet before she even realizes that she moved. Ready to fight.

"Why not?" Hotch's calm voice combined with his words are meant to provoke her. They both know it. He is aware that this is a dangerous game to play. When she collapsed, he was short of taking her to a hospital, and he isn't sure how much more she can take tonight – physically and emotionally. But she is a fighter, always was, always will be. "You are a victim. There is no use in denying the truth," he decides to push it some more.

Emily clenches and unclenches her fingers alternately. She really is ready to fight. Save that there is no one to fight against except herself.

"We _both_ are victims, Emily," Hotch tries to get through to her, past the anger and the denial, "We didn't choose to become victims; it simply happened. I neither believe in fate nor in heaven or hell, but what Foyet did to me changed me and what Doyle did to you changed you – no matter whether you refuse to accept it or not."

Hotch almost feels the pain that he sees in her eyes. He knows exactly what she is going through. The psychic agony after the physical torture. The scars on their skin, scars Foyet inflicted on him and Doyle on her, are nothing compared to the mental hell that followed the mere act. He knows why she nearly hyperventilated. It happened to him more than once after he had killed Foyet. Thank God, Jack always already was asleep and didn't have to watch when his father woke up on the floor, confused and spent, after he had passed out. It simply was too much to take. Everything was wrong. Waking up, going to bed, doing his job. Someone else was living inside the man who once had used to be Aaron Hotchner.

He knows that he should have confided in his colleagues, above all in his long-term friend Dave. Nonetheless, he didn't do it, wasn't able to do the right thing. Therapy didn't help much either. It was more like putting a band-aid on a broken leg. He knew which answers to give to get his job back, but the wound was incessantly bleeding under the bandage. That was one of the reasons he didn't worry much about the lies Emily had told her therapist. At the same time, it was one of the reasons he worried a lot about what she hadn't revealed in her evaluation. That she is holding back as much right now as he was back then.

At the end, Hotch realized and accepted that being a victim is just a fact. Man. Father. Unit Chief. Victim. Survivor. There is even the possibility that being a victim, a _survivor_, makes people stronger. Well, at least the ones it doesn't break. That is the trick. Keep going, live your life, and one day, being a victim is only a description. It took him too long to get there though. He doesn't want Emily to suffer for such a long time. Hotch knows that she read what he had written in his diary. They never talked about it, but he saw it in her eyes when she came back to work the next morning. She had read it in one night.

"Please don't repeat the mistakes I made after Foyet," he refers to his notes and hopes that she understands.

She does. The blazing fire in her eyes disappears and is replaced by a soothing expression. Emily hesitates, and Hotch can tell that she considers going back to the door or to the chair to sit down, but finally she approaches him and sits down next to him on the bed.

"It hurts," she says, her voice hardly audible, "so much, every day."

He can hear the un-cried tears in her voice. "Let it hurt," is the only advice he has for her, "Don't suppress it. It will go away some day."

She nods, and the mattress moves slightly. Hotch becomes aware how strange it is to sit next to her on the bed in his hotel room. Yet, even if this situation couldn't be further afar from a romantic encounter, they couldn't be any closer in every meaning of the word.

"I should have pulled the trigger," Emily mutters to his surprise, but he knows immediately that she is talking about Doyle.

"To take revenge?"

"No," she shakes her head, and the mattress moves again, "to find closure. It should have been me. I owed it to him and to myself." Her last words are spoken without fury or even tension. It's a statement. Something she has come to realize.

"But you can't change it," Hotch cautiously replies, "You can't go back in time and change what happened."

"I know," she takes a deep breath, "Just one more thing in my life that didn't work out as it was supposed to or as I wanted it to."

There is not much he can respond. She is right. There are so many things in their lives that should have been different, shouldn't have happened in the first place. Then again, all those moments have led them here.

"You can't change the past, but you can influence your future." His hand warily brushes her leg. It feels like a moment to touch, to show her his support also in this way, but he doesn't know how. Thus, he places his hand next to her thigh on the bed. After a few moments, he feels her hand hesitatingly touch his. She doesn't say anything, just seems to need the physical connection.

"This is your life, Emily," Hotch says. "This. Now. Tomorrow. Doyle is dead," he pauses and then adds, "Foyet is dead."

"And yet, you have to say it out loud to make yourself believe it," she says. It is no accusation, just an observation.

"Yes," he admits, "but that doesn't change the fact that he is dead, and I'm alive. No matter how often he is killing me in my dreams. When I wake up, I'm alive, and he isn't."

His diary ended several months ago. Emily didn't know that he is still dreaming about Foyet. She should have expected it though. As well as she doesn't expect to stop dreaming about Doyle anytime soon.

Hotch studies her askance. There is one more thing he has to tell her.

"You said that you're not strong," he points out, referring to their earlier discussion, "Then let me ask you something. I overheard today that you skipped meals, but I assume you felt nauseated and vomited anyway." She looks at him surprised. "I smelled the toothpaste," he explains. "And since I assume that you normally brush your teeth when you go to bed and not before you decide to visit me...," he doesn't have to say anything else. He is a profiler. He notices things.

"So, you're here...," he continues, "...despite the fact that you had a bad day, threw up and almost hyperventilated. You may only keep a promise, but you are still here."

Emily takes a deep breath to say something, but he interrupts her, "Where will you be tomorrow?"

This catches her off-guard. "At work. I guess," she says carefully. He is her unit chief after all, and she hopes that this is not the point where some twisted logic takes over, and he will tell her that there have to be more psychic evaluations before she is allowed to be back in the field.

But he simply repeats what she just said, "Yes, at work. Solving another horrible case. And another one after that." He pauses and turns to face her, "And you tell me that you are not strong? Look at what you're doing. You're doing the right thing. You keep going. You go on with your life."

Her eyes meet his, and he discovers equal partial amounts of sadness and gratitude in them. Then she squeezes his hand and moves a little closer until their bodies almost touch. She doesn't know what time it is. There is a weariness in her body that exceeds mere tiredness due to the lack of sleep.

"If only it wasn't such an uphill battle," she has nothing else left to say.

"I know," he understands.

There is no sound in the room aside from their regular breathing. Silence never has felt so comfortable.

"Maybe we can just sit here a little bit longer?" Emily asks almost timidly.

"Always," as a response Hotch interlaces the fingers of his hand with hers. There is nothing weird about it. It feels as if they've done this many times before.

Somehow, he makes it easier for her to be. Even on a bad day.

* * *

**The end**

**I wanted the structure of this chapter to be anti-climactic.**

**Therefore, it started with her breakdown and ended rather quietly**

**so that the experiences of her bad day were replaced with their strong emotional bond. **

**Please let me know if it worked. Thank you so much for leaving a review.**


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